Where the Magic Used to Live: A Theme Park in Transition

The beauty and melancholy of coming back to Universal Studios after Epic. Where the thrills still hit, but the seams now show.

You can feel it the moment you walk under the arches. It’s a strange, layered sensation, like looking at a photograph of a memory. You’re home, but the furniture has been moved. For those of us who have measured our lives in park visits—from childhood trips to college blowouts to adult escapes—returning to Universal Orlando in the new era of Epic Universe is a uniquely poignant, and sometimes jarring, experience. After more than a decade of regular pilgrimages, I took a trip this past March with a few of my college roommates from SCAD. We came looking for the familiar thrills, but what we found was a resort caught between its brilliant future and a past that is beginning to fray around the edges.

It started with a dimming of the magic. I’ve been on Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey and Transformers more times than I can count. They were, for years, the pinnacle of screen-based immersion. This time, however, was different. For the first time on both rides, I found myself actively looking at anything but the screens. The projector bulbs, once vibrant, now seem weary. The 4K promise of a decade ago has faded into something closer to a well-loved VHS tape. On Forbidden Journey, the blacks were milky grey, the images a bit soft around the edges, pulling me out of the fantasy. The same was true for Optimus Prime’s explosive battles; the spectacle felt distant, like watching a movie through a slightly smudged window. You begin to notice the mechanics, the seams you were never meant to see.

That feeling of fading glory is amplified when you get to the register. Everything, it seems, has gotten more expensive, but the value proposition hasn't always kept pace. We walked into the new Minion Cafe in Universal Studios, a genuinely delightful spot with shockingly creative and delicious food. But the sticker shock was real. I watched a friend pay $12 for the “El Macho Nacho Hat,” which amounted to a dozen or so admittedly tasty tortilla chips and what could charitably be called a dash of guacamole. It’s a microcosm of a larger issue. As Universal rightfully pours its culinary genius into the new offerings at Epic Universe, the two legacy parks are in desperate need of more affordable, high-quality food options that don't feel like a compromise.

But for every moment of modern-day frustration, there’s a flicker of old-school charm that catches you by surprise. For the first time in what must be a decade, I went on Men in Black: Alien Attack. I had completely forgotten about the brilliant, campy preshow—the slow, deliberate elevator ride that transports you from a cheesy, 1964-style World’s Fair exhibit into the sleek, secret MIB headquarters. That transition, from a land that doesn't even exist in the park anymore into the ride's narrative, is a piece of theme park history, a relic of a time before every IP had to be part of a larger, synergistic land. It’s almost a museum piece, and it’s wonderful. It stands in such stark contrast to the sleek, integrated worlds of today that its quirkiness becomes its strength. (And don’t worry, Revenge of the Mummy, you’re still perfect. Don’t you ever change.)

These parks, now pushing 25-plus years in some areas, have developed unintentional sanctuaries. After being battered by crowds and noise, my friends and I found ourselves seeking refuge in the most unlikely of places: the alleyway in the New York section where the Blues Brothers play. We sat on the cool, stone steps, completely hidden from the main thoroughfare, resting our feet and just… breathing. It’s a space not designed for anything but atmosphere, and in that, it has become invaluable. It’s a quiet corner in a world of noise, a reminder that sometimes the best parts of a theme park are the ones without a wait time.

Of course, not all change feels like an improvement. Despicable Me Minion Mayhem, once a surprisingly jarring and fun simulator, felt… soft. It’s as if years of operation have gently nerfed its movements, sanding down the edges of the shakes and rattles until it’s more of a pleasant jiggle. And some things never change, but your willingness to indulge them does. For the first time ever, I paid for one of those human-sized heat-drying booths outside Jurassic Park River Adventure. After committing to the glorious drenching of both Dudley Do-Right’s and Popeye’s barges on a day that wasn’t even particularly hot, the appeal of being blast-dried for a few bucks finally won out. It was worth every penny.

But then, just when you think you have the measure of the place—a resort of aging rides and quiet corners—it delivers a moment of pure, unadulterated perfection. Late one night, I slipped into the single rider line for VelociCoaster. By some miracle of the theme park gods, I was placed in the front row of the only train whose decorative blue lights were still working. Launching into the darkness, with only the ethereal blue glow illuminating the track ahead, was a religious experience. The world falls away, and it’s just you, the wind, and the roar of the raptors.

It crystallized a final thought. Universal at night is beautiful, but Islands of Adventure at night is a masterpiece. When you linger after closing, waiting in a long line for Hagrid’s or VelociCoaster, you get a gift. You get to see the park breathe. The lighting package on the spires of Hogwarts, the jungle glow of the Jurassic Park canopy, the vibrant colors of Seuss Landing—it’s one of the most stunning environments ever created.

Returning to Universal is to experience this constant push and pull between the past and the future. It’s seeing the worn-down screen on a beloved ride, then paying a premium for lunch. It’s rediscovering a forgotten preshow, then being blown away by a state-of-the-art coaster. It's a resort in transition, and maybe that’s okay. The frozen Butterbeer is still the best, and a quiet moment on a set of hidden steps can be just as magical as any ride. The old parks may feel second-rate compared to the epic future down the road, but they still have a few perfect moments left in them, especially after the sun goes down.